


nights melt into sequels

by colectiva



Category: Open Heart (Visual Novels)
Genre: F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Some Hair pulling, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, some lite orgasm denial, some sadness because i can't be trusted, what can i say i see a potential fwb storyline and i eat it up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29400753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colectiva/pseuds/colectiva
Summary: Bryce and Casey are more than just friends…right?
Relationships: Bryce Lahela/Main Character (Open Heart), Bryce Lahela/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	nights melt into sequels

**Author's Note:**

> Started writing this after b2 ch14. Bryce, say you’re MC’s friend one more time and i WILL write the fwb series sitting in my docs.  
> this is not very good, but it's done and needs to move out of my wip graveyard.  
> barely edited, we die like men bla bla bla (i have been trying to find a sentence that's like: find a smarter word for this - but i cant seem to trace it. so you come up with one, please)

**His kiss is tequila – earthy, semisweet, fruity lime.**

They stumble through his apartment door-- actual full on trip-over-the-welcome-mat-and-yank-down-coats _stumble_.

Casey thinks they should be experts at this by now. They’ve lost count of how many times they’ve tripped over that damn shoe rack – slamming her into the wall when they stagger over laces and boots.

Bryce’s hands are everywhere, and yet nowhere she needs them.

His mouth slants over hers, the solid lines of his body pressing her further into the wall. Both hands sliding down his chest, starting to fumble with the buttons of his rain-soaked shirt. Maybe in the morning they’ll go back for his sweater, forgotten in some alley near the club. 

Bryce distracts her, leaving dizzying open-mouthed kisses on the corner of her mouth, hot tongue running down the side of her neck, and nips the sensitive skin right below her ear. She tries her best to withhold the moan pulsing behind her teeth -- threatening to spill -- knowing very well his ego can live without it.

Her focus breaks the spell he’s put her under. She remembers the task at hand -- nimble fingers peel what they can of waterlogged material, pushing it off his shoulders.

Bryce gets the hint, briefly breaking the kiss ( _air_ , sweet _air_ ), and shrugs out of the sleeves. It falls to the floor with an unceremonious, sodden, _plop_.

He dives forward, cupping her face, mouth crashing against hers, and trapping Casey between his frame and the wall once more.

Her touch, still chilled from fleeing the downpour, traces the lines of his muscled chest – slick with raindrop residue. He sucks in a breath, hissing at the harsh contrast in temperature between the heat of their arousal and her cold touch.

“Off,” he commands, tugging at the edge of her blouse before peeling it off her skin—joining his shirt at their feet.

Casey swears she sees steam rising between them, their feverish skin evaporating any memory of autumn rain. She wants it to devour her, consume her, envelope her in the familiar fuzzy-heat only Bryce knows how to bring on.

He steps back, eyes lingering ravenously over the barely-there brassiere. The sheer mesh does little-to-nothing to veil the pinched peaks of her breasts. She almost shies away under his gaze, resisting the urge to bring her arms over herself-- watching the staggered bob of his adam’s apple.

His movements: slow, a sharp dichotomy from the desperation in the elevator just moments ago. He lifts one finger, her focus transfixed on those agile hands. _God_ , he knows how to use them all too well for her own good.

She holds her breath, anticipation acquaints itself in the heat working down her neck and chest where all his attention is poised.

His knuckle meets the sheer, black fabric, tracing with an excruciating lack of haste over a pert nipple. Her body thrums to life -- a sharp inhale breaking the silence -- the single touch nearly sends her careening over. A bolt of need shoots straight through her. 

He makes her electric, awake, a live wire ready to spark.

It’s enough to draw Bryce’s attention back to her face, as if almost forgetting she’s been in the room with him this entire time. In the darkness of his apartment, she can make out the corners of his mouth teasing into a smug grin.

 _Fuck_.

He’s never going to let her forget it.

“What? Does that feel good?” His voice, thick with desire, but she doesn’t miss the overconfident cadence.

“ _Shut up_ ,” she hisses.

Her fingers wind tightly into the hair at the back of his head, still damp from rain…or is it from working up a sweat on the dancefloor?

His mouth opens, welcomes her with no hesitance, letting her taste the tequila lingering on his tongue once more. He gets her high on nothing but the warmth of his breath and the slip of his tongue.

With renewed fervour, his bare chest presses against the flimsy fabric of her bra while she works on his belt, the button of his jeans, and with a hasty tug, his zipper.

Her eager, determined hand delves past the harsh denim, brushing over the coarse hairs that stop just above the elastic of the underwear.

It’s her turn to grin when she feels the taut strain of cotton from his erection. His breath catches when she frees him, wraps her now-warm hand around his even warmer member.

“Why, Dr Lahela,” she asks breezily between kisses, trying to fight her arousal so she can deliver the mockingly coy observation. “All of this, just for me?”

He groans and their noses knock when he captures her lips in another frenzied kiss. Sliding together in an attempt to silence her smart mouth – inevitably bucking his hips, pleading her to move her hand _just once_.

“This is what happens when you rub your ass on me like that.”

Taking matters into his own hands, in the most literal sense, he engulfs her unmoving grip with his much larger one. Long, deft fingers and sturdy palm wrapping up her fist. He guides it up and down once before she pulls away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says into his mouth. Their heavy-lidded gazes meet. “I was enjoying myself— dancing with my _friend._ ”

A strangled laugh escapes Bryce and shakes his head in disbelief.

“I swear to god, Casey. I’m gonna fuck the word right out of that pretty mouth,” he growls and kisses her.

With strength that never fails to impress her, Bryce effortlessly scoops her up by her thighs, legs scrambling to wrap around his waist. Unable to resist, still pinned by the weight of him, she rolls her hips – rubbing her aching centre against his evident erection.

And although she thinks this will drive him crazy, all it does is further twist the coil ready to snap inside her. Heartbeat loud in her ears, she’s still too clothed for how badly the craving for his skin on hers is-- her arms lock him in, hands travelling over the muscles between and around his shoulder blades.

Bryce takes it as encouragement, and when he moves to step over their shirts and away from the hallway, Casey ceases leaving marks along his throat.

“Forget the bed… let’s do it right here.”

It comes out in an embarrassing croak, and it stops him in his tracks. Bryce takes in her sweet, swollen lips – partly opened and panting. He turns his head to scan his apartment, doing a quick recon of all the places he wants to make her delirious with desire… all the surfaces he can worship every inch of her skin.

“Here?”

“Did I stutter?”

 _God,_ she could be the most frustrating woman he’s ever met.

He takes her bottom lip in between his teeth (gives it a reprimanding pinch), grip tightening on her thighs, and he leads them towards the kitchen counter.

Casey shimmies out her jeans with help, heavy from running five blocks in the rain. She shivers at the fresh chill in his apartment and the cool countertop underneath her, clad only in the scraps she calls underwear.

But he remedies this by closing the gap between them. His hands move up and down her back, warming her and making her heart jump every time he bumps against the clasp of her bra.

She wants him to do it without having to tell him, and she thinks— _No_ , she _knows_ , he’s just waiting for her to ask…to _beg_.

Arms come around Bryce’s neck, brushing her breasts against his goosebumped flesh. She’s offered fleeting relief from the growing frustration between her legs, growing warmer and wetter with the slide of his tongue along hers.

“Take it off,” Casey pants.

“Where are your manners?”

His tone is shaky and gruff, completely affected by the fiery trail of hot kisses she places over his throat and clavicle-- rolling the back of her tongue along the movement of his adam’s apple.

There’s no quip, no witty comeback, and that’s when he knows he should worry.

Casey palms his length, then uses her thumb to spread his glistening precum around the head, tightening her fist around it just how he likes (a bit tighter near the head, a little gentler at the base).

“ _Oh fuck_ ,” he rasps, forehead falling onto her shoulder. His breaths labour, hands coming down to grip the edge of the counter.

“I said _take it off_ ,” she ducks her head to meet his eye and pumps him once…twice…three times at an agonisingly measured pace.

It takes everything in him not to unravel. Her brown eyes stare him down with a determination that makes him twitch in her hand. He’s got that dreamy look on his face, the kind that has her wanting to clench her thighs together-- even potentially forget this entire game.

He swallows, fighting back the urge to drive his hips into her touch, and does as he’s told. 

Reaching around, in one smooth movement of his index and thumb, her bra comes undone – falling on her lap.

With that same unwavering gaze, she brings the pad of her thumb to her lips, brushing her tongue over it and sucking softly while humming.

He wastes no time, hardly allowing himself to revere her like the entity that will continue to haunt his sleepless nights. The same woman that drives him near the brink of insanity with simple ploys like sucking his lower lip and licking his precum off her fingers.

Tossing her bra across the room in pseudo-frustration, Bryce ducks his head and takes one perked nipple⎼ sucking it into his mouth⎼ before she has a chance to devise another diabolical act against his rationality.

Caught off guard, Casey’s head snaps back, jaw slacking, and one loud moan bounces off the walls of his apartment.

Cold fingers worry her other nipple, refusing to neglect any of the newly exposed skin. Violets, nightclub smoke, October rain and the tart taste of her sweat from their dancing earlier in the evening – it mingles on her skin and Bryce laps it up hungrily.

She's a strobe light. Bright, unearthing, dynamic. 

His tongue swirls in rushed, unpredictable patterns -- refusing to let Casey adjust to the sensation.

Blood hot in her veins, heat overruns her once chilled skin, and she tries helplessly to alleviate the pulsing between her legs, demanding her attention. She curls her fingers into his belt loops and guides him closer, the heat of his cock meets the mesh of her underwear -- and, _shitshitshit_ , Bryce feels the poor job it's doing at hiding her arousal. A wet little patch, proof of her need for him.

He tweaks and tugs at her nipples, switching his mouth’s attention from one to the other until Casey lets out another noisy gasp she can no longer hold back.

Then he peeks up at her with that smug _fucking_ grin.

She reassigns herself the task of pushing his jeans the rest of the way off his hips -- because enough is enough.

Using the heel of her foot, Bryce aids her and kicks away the rest of his clothes – standing before her like the _irritating_ Adonis she daydreams about during her coffee breaks.

Her fingers trace the defined cut of his V-lines. She gets far too much pleasure watching him shiver, doing nothing at all to bite back her amusement.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He has the audacity to chuckle and, instead of vexing Casey, this time around the sound awakens a deeper hunger. One that demands flesh on flesh, sends her heart racing and her pulse jumping – she squirms against him and it wipes the grin off his face.

Arms and legs wrap around him once more, chests flush together, and she pulls him down for another kiss. It’s slow, languid, and Bryce takes his time – massaging her tongue with his. He cradles her head in his hands, keeping her in place while he kisses _how he so damn well pleases_.

 _Fuck, yes, of course, he’s good at that_ , because at this point: what is he not good at?

A muffled cry escapes her when her nipples graze his muscled chest.

He tugs her slightly off the counter, keeping her pressed directly against his erection-- feels him flex needily.

“Touch me,” she gasps – _pleads_ – pride shaky.

He ignores her. He’s not done.

His hand, snaked around the back of her head, angles her so he can continue to kiss her precisely how he’s craved all evening. It’s all teeth and swirling tongue, the taste of her mouth and the scent of his skin intoxicating.

“How bad do you want me, Valentine?”

She jerks against him in response. Casey reaches for whatever part of him she can get a hold of, a shoulder, a taut arm, his throat-- she’s lost track. 

Bryce slides a hand between them, resting it on her inner thigh, and she freezes.

Teeth clamp down on her tongue, and she watches him through heavy-lidded eyes. An enthusiastic moan threatens to burst from her lips.

She _has_ to hold back. But this stupid game they have going is about to be shot to hell.

Bryce’s fingers hover at the edge of her underwear, ready to slide it to the side and give her everything, everything, everything she wants.

He gazes at her determined, mouth parted while he takes in a ragged breath – not entirely unaffected by the proximity of her wet sex, ready and waiting for him.

And she whimpers… _actually whimpers_.

She’ll have to put a reminder on her phone: _In the morning, find 1.) Bryce’s sweater and then 2.) some self-respect._

The corner of his mouth, the side where her favourite freckle lives, upturns.

_Yes, okay, fine. He’s won._

With tantalizing ease, he moves her underwear to one side and she swears her legs are about to start trembling if he doesn’t speed it up.

One long, precise finger grazes over her folds -- the pressure a whisper in comparison to what she’s willing to beg for. 

Desperation only heightens when she remembers the things those fingers are capable of, the sole reason (or at least she tells herself) why she pressed up against him on the dancefloor.

Helplessly, she wiggles her hips closer, leaning back slightly to offer him a better angle. And before she gets the opportunity to beg, before she can even entertain the words framed with _please_ and _now_ , Bryce dips a finger into her.

“ _Oh!_ ”

And the sound echoes through his empty home, vibrating loudly in their ears. The moan is deep, throaty and fortified by hours of pent up sexual frustration.

It’s gaudy and borders on kitsch, like something straight out of one of the X-rated videos he sends her with a cheeky follow-up text of: _What do you think? Willing to try this?_

She’s eager, warm, and already clamping down on his finger. Bryce doesn’t know how he manages to focus on her when his own need is begging for her touch, her mouth--

He stops her from tossing her head back with the hand tangled in her dark hair. That’s going to be a bitch to unknot in the morning.

“Look at me,” he growls.

He brings her delirious gaze to meet his darkened eyes. Bryce indulges in her current state: heated, impatient skin already perspiring from the most minimal touch. Her eyes are hooded, plump lips forming a little ‘o’ in anticipation -- and the most addicting noises fall from them.

Then he smirks, drawing out his finger and watches her slowly lose her mind at the loss of sensation.

“Tease,” breathless, writhing on the countertop, like she could just will his fingers into her. 

A gleaming white smile forms, even through the darkness of his apartment with the rain still lashing down on the windows, it is the most remarkable thing in the room ( _any room_ ).

“Open,” the same finger he _barely_ worked her with waits to be welcomed into her mouth.

“I hate you,” she really doesn’t.

“Just be a good girl, for once.”

With his grip still intertwined in her hair, Casey welcomes the long digit, one knuckle at a time, moaning at the taste of herself -- the salt of his skin and the aftertaste of her arousal.

Fluttering her eyelashes at him playfully, he stares at her in dumbfounded fascination.

“How am I doing? Good enough?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” and he adds his index before muttering a deep: _oh fuck_.

She makes a mess, even when Bryce is about to pull away, Casey latches on to his strong wrist. Keeping him steady, her head bobs up and down until they’re sticky with her eagerness.

These hands…these hands are _hers_.

And a depraved part of her wants the memory of her mouth sloppily sucking (tongue dipping in between middle and forefinger -- running it down the base where they part and back up before taking them deep in her mouth) to crop up when he’s busy scrubbing in for surgery.

Bryce retracts his hand, a premature and wet _pop_ deafening in the silence. A mixture of awe and bewilderment clash on the handsome lines of his face.

“You’re infuriating,” he doesn’t mean it.

He releases his hold on her hair, pushes her thighs apart with a gentle but decisive shove, stirring shiver after shiver out of her.

This has nothing to do with the lack of central heating in his flat, nothing to do with the downpour they caught in on their way here, and nothing to do with the impending cold they’ll both suffer through next week.

The sight of Bryce, observing her where she needs him most, has her trembling.

He tilts his head, bottom lip tucked between teeth -- _admires_ her. A hand, the one unsullied by her needy mouth, parts her with two confident fingers.

“All of this, just for me?” he echoes her previous taunt, enough to make her hate herself.

 _Bastard_.

His eyes meet hers briefly before turning his attention back to where she’s embarrassingly wet because of him.

With those fingers she worked on so diligently, he finds her clit with startling ease -- moves the pads of his first and second fingers in a slow, smooth circle.

And then he sinks them inside her. 

Casey thinks she might lose it right here, along with the last semblance of dignity she pretends to cherish when it comes to him. She latches onto him, holds onto anything that will ground her, and not let her descend into a fit of pitiful moans at the barest touch. 

She swears, but it doesn't sound like anything -- the vague idea of the words _shit, fuck, fuck, oh fuck_ meld into one hot breath. 

Bryce keeps her singing, with that arrogant smile, moving in and out of her slick heat. Casey braces herself, nails dig into his muscled shoulders (there will be marks in the morning) while he keeps her thighs apart.

He curves his fingers just right, thumb meets her clit, and she can hear how wet she is-- and he asks her if she hears it too.

Casey ignores him. Stubborn and unsure where she finds the fight, she staves off offering up her pride as a sacrifice. She refuses to lay at his feet -- _even if_ he is the only one that can work her this way. 

She’s just about to throw her head back again when the hand on her thigh moves to her hair again -- the grip is firmer, demanding.

“Tell me you like it,” Bryce searches her face. Behind the impassioned expression clouding him, there’s something _else_ there, something she can’t place.

He slows the pace, draws out her pleasure until it borders on painful impatience. 

“Please,” she whines and wiggles her hips. 

“Say it, Valentine,” and he gives her a taste of how good it can be, how good she’s felt just a flicker of a second ago. “I want to hear it. Tell me how good it feels.”

A small cry escapes her, forced to stare at him as he hits it _perfectly_ \-- stroking the places that make her want to bounce against his hand. 

“Tell me. Is it like this with any of the others?”

She can’t think, she can’t think, she can’t think-- she thinks she might--

And he slows.

Casey growls, like the carnal, primal thing she becomes at his command. 

“Bryce,” it sounds like his name at least. 

“How bad do you want it?” He says it with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His fingers move along her scalp -- splaying out and bracing her head. “Say it’s good with me...and only me.”

There he goes, fingers curling and stroking, building that fire back up to terrifying heights, a heat licking at her belly and up her chest, a fire that has her ineffectually jerking her hips.

“So good, so good-- _sogoodsogood_ ,” Casey plants a hand on either side of his face, roughly bringing him down to kiss her with earnest.

Hunger, teeth, tongue. She can’t focus on the kiss, she just knows she wants his mouth against hers while he swirls his thumb around her clit again -- because this might be _it_ , this might be the perfect way to get her to where she’s begging to be.

But he slows down again, forehead to forehead, removes the pressure from her clit and she lets out an exasperated groan. 

Near tears, she’s ready to beg. And Bryce knows this. 

He cups the side of her jaw and laughs. He’s the only person she’s ever been with that _laughs_ during sex, and it’s annoying how turned on she gets-- the way her nipples pinch at the honey, raspy sound of it. 

“Wow, that good, huh?”

There’s no room in her mouth for the insults she wants to launch at him, because he’s added a third finger into the mix and she’s _full_ , and so is her mouth-- a stream of expletives and profanities. 

She thinks she might slip off the counter, but Bryce keeps her right, hoisting a thigh at his naked hip-- skin catching on skin. It allows her to thrust into his hand at her heart’s content until she’s so stupid-delirious with pleasure she catches herself saying:

“Wait, I need you, I need you-- I want you, nownow _now_ \--please, now.”

Why did she open her mouth? Because the time she spends waiting, while Bryce scrambles to his bedroom to find a condom, is a new level of self-inflicted sabotage. Her hand dips between her legs while she hears him knock around drawers and light switches.

 _Alright,_ maybe it is _a little sexy_ to sit on his island counter, touching herself, while listening to him dig around eagerly. 

When he returns, rolling the condom over his length, he finds her drawing those slow, teasing circles on her clit. Eyebrows arching, he runs a hand through his damp hair-- only defining the swell of his bicep as he does so.

A mischievous grin appears, and Casey wants to kiss off his face.

“Impatient much?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she stops and tugs him in between her legs.

She kisses him like they hadn’t been doing just that all evening. But he takes his time touching her, skimming the flesh at her thighs tenderly, and stopping at her waist. Then, Casey feels the nudge of him when he shifts her hips to an accommodating angle.

She’s making a mess of his hair, tugging him closer to quell the incessant fluttering in her stomach, the doubling up of her heart.

Because it’s about to get _so good_. 

The suspense leaves her silly. She knows full well by now what to expect, but these kisses (where she runs her tongue over his teeth and her hands trace his jawline) keep her distracted from the breathtaking excitement. 

And that’s it.

Breathtaking.

They stare at each other, mouths falling open mid-gasp. Time grinds to a halt and she’s waiting for that first crushing wave of pleasure to really, fully hit. It gets to him first, because the noise he makes starts as a moan before it dissolves into a guttural thing-- and it’s _not even all_ _of him_. 

By the time he buries himself fully inside her, Casey is a babbling mess, nodding at absolutely nothing except at the sensation of him. The delicious stretch of him, filling her up in all the places she’s keened over earlier -- it’s gratifying, rewarding. 

She’s lost their game and, yet, somehow she’s earned this. 

Bryce tilts his hips and Casey can’t decide what feels better-- him deep inside her or sliding away only to snap his hips right back. 

It’s slow, so very, excruciatingly slow. Rolling, swivelling, rotating -- hitting places she can only daydream about touching on her own. She wishes he won’t stop, not now, not ever--

“Don’t you dare hold back,” she manages in between a stream of nonsense praises. 

“Funny you think I would,” and he laughs again.

 _Oh, she hates him_ , hates that he’s so good at this. At knowing what she needs and when she needs it and how she needs it -- picking up speed and finding her clit after sucking his thumb wet.

His hair falls into his face, craning to watch his movements in deep concentration -- at her taking in every bit of him while she moans prettily ( _incessantly_ ) into his empty home. 

With her thighs hitched at his waist (where she feels a rogue bead of sweat), he holds the back of her head again-- Casey currently letting her noises drift to the ceiling. She wishes he wouldn’t study her like that, bringing her forward to face him as he fucks her, lips parted and gazing at her in awe.

When he looks at her-- when he takes his time to trace his eyes over her face...

No, no, no.

Casey doesn’t want to think about his pure, sweet kisses before he leaves in the mornings, and his smell after he uses her shower and bath products, or the way he winks at her in the corridors when they think no one is looking.

“Say my name.”

Without thinking twice, without an iota hesitance...he pulls it free from her-- tugs it from where she keeps it safely tucked it away. Nudged out of the place she only visits when she’s in the privacy of her room. When it’s late and she’s tired and all she wants to do is maybe look at a picture from his social media -- from a time before she knew him.

The surfing one, when he was in undergrad, and he’s throwing one of those iconic grins at the camera-- _fuck_ , whoever took that picture...she’ll have to thank them in another life. One where she’s not so stubborn. One where she’s not calloused at the edges of her heart. One where she freely tells him he’s handsome, and sometimes, when the light catches in his hair, she can see some dark-gold strands in the silky browns. 

So it’s quiet, gentle, pillowed, and feathery light.

“Bryce.”

He kisses her, his thumb speeds up and so do his thrusts and then _she's_ feather-light and pillowy.

She crashes, holding onto him like everything about this purely selfish sensation (lighting up her nerves) relies on the heat of his skin. She’s shaking, trembling, wrapping him up in quivering muscles. Close is not close enough, _close_ will never be enough when it comes to Bryce.

Because she doesn’t hate him. She’s not infuriated by him (not in a _bad way_ at least). She doesn’t care that he laughs, face buried in her neck as he drives into her. If anything, she wishes she could laugh with him-- to be that free.

Her dignity is his, the honour would be hers-- _takeittakeittakeit, please_.

He is beautiful, and sweet, and funny, and _oh my god_ is he smart. Sometimes she thinks smarter than her (not that she’ll ever let him in on that little detail). And kind, so kind. She remembers drunk-dialling Sienna and wondering aloud how someone could be both a surgeon _and kind_. 

He is incomparable.

Bryce falls apart in the safety of her arms, eyes shut and crying out, letting her pepper his neck with kisses (salty, sweet from the sweat he’s worked up). His hips jerk, uneven thrusts pulling tiny mewling sounds from her.

And then soft, lingering kisses, where it’s just lips: top lip between hers, bottom lip between his. Foreheads meet and she hasn’t let go (she doesn’t want to let go). 

Casey is shaking, but not the cold-tremor type. 

Her teeth do not chatter and, although she should be freezing, she’s too distracted, cheek now resting on his sweaty chest as she listens to the hammering of his heart.

Quivering. It reminds her of Monday mornings before AP English when she hadn’t done her literary analysis. A silly fear that manifests in her gut and wracks through her body. Because, once again, there is a solution to this, but Casey heeds no advice.

Large palms run up and down her arms-- but it just makes it worse...because this is _nice_. 

They’re quiet, but he mutters “ _wait here_ ” before heading to his bedroom to dispose of the condom, presumably.

She hardly notices the time pass, just staring at the knackered fridge across from her, fighting the whizzing thoughts forcing their way into her afterglow. Robbing her of the much sought-after and hard-earned bliss.

Casey blinks surprised when the tickle of his fluffy throw drapes over her shoulders. He’s standing in a fresh pair of underwear, that same _something_ from earlier lines his serious expression. Bryce's hands busy themselves securing the fabric around her neck, gripping it, and tucking her neatly inside it.

Warm. She is warmed by him, or maybe it's the blanket. 

No. She knows which one.

He levels her a sombre look, but his tone isn’t nasty...just quiet...and unlike him.

“We’re not just friends and you know it.”


End file.
